


To Keep From Sinking

by afteriwake



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes Feels, PTSD Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 02:40:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 16,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4649133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/pseuds/afteriwake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever since taking care of the problem with Moriarty once and for all, Sherlock has felt, for lack of a better word, haunted. He has his whole bright future ahead of him but it doesn’t mean anything to him. It doesn’t matter to him. After he nearly throws it all away he slowly starts to rebuild his life and focus on the things that are important to him, rebuilding relationships and deciding what type of life he wants to have for himself regardless of what is expected of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [belis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/belis/gifts).



> This fic was requested by **belis** and I've been working on it ever since I got it. **belis** wanted a Sherlock-centric fic dealing with mental health issues, and I decided to focus on depression and PTSD. This is set post series-4, so the Moriarty video issue has been taken care of. The title comes from a quote from Elizabeth Wurtzel's  Prozac Nation (“If you are chronically down, it is a lifelong fight to keep from sinking”).

He had done many things he regretted over the years, many things he looked back on with regret and remorse. He suppose he shouldn’t have, considering why he had done them, but he did. That was the truest sign he was not a high functioning sociopath, he supposed. The fact he felt bad about doing horrible things to people meant he had a conscience, meant he was more normal than not. It meant that he was capable of being a fully functional human being. He managed to put the things he had done behind him, for the most part, move on with his life. It was easy enough: tuck them into a dark and desolate corner of his mind palace and just leave them there.

But the things that had been done to _him_ , on the other hand, were harder to let go of.

He tried to push them away, keep them in the dark, desolate corner, but they wouldn’t stay. They would creep out at the oddest times, triggered by the most mundane things. A car would backfire and he’d be back in Mozambique, hearing gunfire spraying the otherwise silent streets, feel the slug go into his side. He could hear two sergeants arguing at the Yard over a theory on a case that had nothing to do with him and he’d be brought back to Los Angeles, to the two thugs fighting over his immobile body that one of them had knifed dangerously close to his spine. 

And sometimes there wasn’t even a trigger. Sometimes there would be complete silence and he would let his mind wander and he would shut his eyes and he was _there_ , in whatever dangerous situation his mind decided to trap him in while his eyes were closed, living through it all over again, every last detail: all the sights and sounds, the smells and feelings on every inch of his body…he would even feel the temperature and taste the things he tasted when he was there. It was so vivid, like a waking nightmare. And then he’d either snap out of it or be snapped out of it and then he’d shake it off as best he could and go about his business.

He was good at putting on the face. He was quite good at it, actually, the impassive face of boredom, that he didn’t care about the world around him, just the select few in his orbit. To the majority of the outside world he must have appeared fine. No one asked for details of the world’s only consulting detective’s travels; they must have imagined it as though it was a spy thriller, with all of the intrigue and drama and none of the pain and misery. Let them. It was easier that way.

His friends, though…his friends had to know something was amiss. He could see it in their eyes, in the way they looked at him. It hovered in their gazes, the concern they had for him, varying in levels depending on what they caught him doing. He’d slipped back to heroin once, before this mess with Moriarty…surely he might do it again, would he not? And, perhaps, they had good reason to worry. He knew there was a problem, that he shouldn’t be like this. But it wasn’t a major problem. It wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle. He could focus on other things, pull himself out of his moods. Keep a stiff upper lip, as his brother had always said when he was young. He would persevere, as he always did.

Moriarty was behind him. Twice now, forever removed from his life…hopefully. Magnussen was behind him, too, and good riddance for that. He had a bright future to look forward to, he was told. John and Mary had had their daughter, a beautiful child they’d named Catherine. She was one of the few bright spots in his dreary days. He had his cases again, the consults with Scotland Yard and the private cases with John, and now with Molly, as the Meat Dagger was well and truly out of the picture. Good riddance to him, she deserved better. All in all, there was more to look forward to in his life then there was to detract from it.

And yet he scarcely wanted to take part in it.

Today he lay on the sofa, still in his pyjamas and dressing gown, dozing and yet not really trying to sleep. He seemed not to have the energy to move. Too little sleep, he supposed, though that had never been a problem before. Perhaps too little food, though he didn’t have much of an appetite. That wasn’t strange, though when he did want to eat it took a great deal of effort to do more than make some toast and smother it with orange marmalade or, if he was absolutely starving, call for takeaway. He heard the door opened and turned, wanting whoever it was that was coming in to turn right back around and go away. He only sat up when he saw that it was Molly, and she was carrying a large plastic sack of food. “Molly,” he said quietly.

“You’ve been rather quiet, and John said you might not have eaten,” she said, reaching up and tucking some hair behind her ear. “I…um…I went to an Indian restaurant for lunch, with friends, and I thought you might like something too. There’s some chicken berry Britannia Biryani, some mahi tikka, some prawn koliwada, some lamb samosas, some gunpowder potatoes…and there’s a lot of garlic naan and steamed basmati rice.”

“Thank you,” he said before turning back to face the back of the sofa. “You can put it in the kitchen.”

She nodded and then took it into the kitchen. She began taking the containers out of the sack and then paused. “I…are you all right, Sherlock?”

“I’m fine, just tired,” he said. He appreciated the food and he supposed he appreciated the concern but right now he just wanted peace and quiet. He wanted to be left alone. “I’ll talk to you later, all right?”

“All right,” she said. She finished what she was doing and then turned and left the kitchen, making it to the top if the stairs. “If you need to talk, Sherlock, you know you can call me. I’m always there for you.” He stayed quiet, and after a moment she went down the stairs and left the flat. He shut his eyes and tried to doze off again. If he was very lucky, perhaps he could get some sleep without flashing back to a time he didn’t want to think about. He could only hope.


	2. Chapter 2

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sleeping. He just knew it was dark when he finally woke up, thankful that he hadn’t slipped into any disturbing dreams. His sleep had been dreamless and that was good. He pulled himself off the sofa, his limbs feeling leaden. It was quiet enough outside that it had to be late, perhaps nine or ten, which meant he’d gotten at least eight hours of rest, but it didn’t feel like it. It was like that often now, and it was taking great effort just to get through a day.

He went to the boxes of takeaway Molly had brought. She certainly had brought a lot of food, he realized, more than he could eat tonight. He took down a plate and put a bit of the things that looked appealing on the plate. He put more on the plate than he knew he’d probably eat, but perhaps if he tried to entice himself he’d eat more of it. He got a fork and then took the plate to the table and began to eat. It tasted good, even if it was cold and he hadn’t bothered to reheat it first, but he’d only had a few bites before his mobile began to ring by the sofa.

He pulled himself away from his food and trudged to the sofa, going to pick it up. It was John. “Hello?” he asked.

“I thought you’d never answer your phone,” John said. “I’ve called six times today.”

He must have been in a deeper sleep than he’d thought. “What time is it?” Sherlock asked.

“It’s ten. Greg said if you didn’t pick up this time he was bringing over armed officers to make sure you weren’t being held at gunpoint.”

He scowled slightly. “I was tired, John. I was sleeping. Molly was here earlier in the day. She saw I was simply napping. I’m allowed to have an off day.” He ran a hand through his hair. “What’s so urgent that everyone needed to get a hold of me?”

“Greg has a case. I’d say it ranks about an eight.”

Sherlock wanted to be excited for it. Most cases were fives or lower these days, and now that Moriarty was dispatched to the great beyond he craved stimulation. But right now he just wanted to eat a bit more and go back to sleep. “Tomorrow,” he said.

“Sherlock?”

“I’ll visit the scene tomorrow,” he said insistently.

There was a pause. “This isn’t like you,” John said quietly when he finally spoke.

“Off day,” Sherlock said.

“You’ve been having a lot of those,” John replied.

“It happens,” Sherlock said with a shrug, wanting to end the conversation. He knew John was worried but right now he didn’t want to be harped at. He didn’t want to be lectured. He just wanted to be left in peace. “I want to get back to my food now. I was in the middle of eating.”

“Fine,” John said, and Sherlock could tell he was biting back a sigh. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow, then. Is nine too early?”

He didn’t really _want_ to wake up at nine but he supposed he didn’t have a choice, not if he wanted to put on a façade. “Nine is fine,” he said. “See you tomorrow.” He hung p before John could reply and only then did he see he had voicemails. He didn’t bother to check them, though. He didn’t want to hear his friend getting increasingly annoyed or worried, not right now. Right now he wanted his food and his peace and quiet and more rest. More rest sounded excellent. He went back to his plate and picked at the rest of his food, eating only a bit more, the impetus to actually eat more than he absolutely needed to gone.

With a sigh he took his plate and fork to the sink, setting it inside without scraping the food into the rubbish bin. After a moment he put the food that needed to be refrigerated into the refrigerator; if Molly had spent as much money as he suspected she had the least he could do is not waste her money. Then he went to his bedroom and laid down on his bed, not bothering with the duvet or sheets, shutting his eyes.

He was bone tired but his mind whirred, wanting stimulation. It was craving it, and he just wanted it to stop, just for a while. Perhaps he should have dragged himself out of the flat to go to Lestrade’s scene, he thought to himself as he opened his eyes. After a moment he trudged to the loo and opened the medicine cabinet. There was some cough syrup left over from the last time he was ill that John had forced on him. It wasn’t ideal, but it would at least induce drowsiness and put him to sleep. At this point he just wanted stillness and quiet. 

He didn’t bother measuring out a proper dosage, just putting his lips to the bottle and tipping his head back and swallowing. He was careful not to swallow too much, drinking just enough to take the edge off, but when he was done he went back to his room and laid back down. Soon the drowsiness kicked in and he found himself drifting back to sleep. Hopefully this would be dreamless as well.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock had gone to the scene and surveyed it, taking it all in. it really was an eight, just like John had said. It should have excited him, should have sent the tremor of anticipation through him, but he remained quiet and just seemed to drift through it all, rather like a ghost. John watched and he could see the worry in John’s eyes but he pretended not to notice. He knew that by now the body had to have been autopsied; he’d ignored the scene for almost twenty-four hours and he could get the results now, and while he would much rather just go home and go back to sleep perhaps if he forced himself to do this it would help.

He got into the cab with John and stared out the window. There was an awkward silence between them until John spoke. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“Fine,” Sherlock said, not wanting to have this conversation.

He didn’t need to look at John to know he wanted to argue that point, wanted to say more, but he held off. He was quiet for a few more moments. “Catherine started crawling,” he said finally.

Sherlock allowed himself a small smile at that. Even in the fog of his lethargy, the miasma of his mind where he did not care about things, this permeated. This small and seemingly insignificant detail filtered through. “It’s going to be hard for you to keep up soon,” he said.

“Yeah,” John said. “You should come by and see her, Sherlock. She’s getting big.”

“Perhaps,” he said, his smile fading a bit. He did care for his goddaughter, and he did want to see her, but that would mean having to be around others. He knew Mary meant well, but he was already getting worried glances and well-meaning concern from John. He didn’t need it from his wife as well. “Did you see the victim before the body was taken away?”

“I was at the scene for hours, hoping you’d show up,” John said. Sherlock turned to glance at him, seeing he was looking at him. “It was definitely death by exsanguination. I mean, you saw all the blood on the floor.”

Sherlock nodded and then turned back to the window of the cab. Of course he had seen the blood. He hadn’t meant that. But there was no point. He wouldn’t have needed to ask if he’d just dragged himself from his home to visit the scene the day before like everyone else had wanted. _Once again, I’ve let my friends down_ , the voice in the back of his head chimed in. It had been popping up more and more frequently as of late, feeding into his feelings of uselessness and self-doubt. Not that he had them often, but he _did_ have them.

The two men stayed quiet as they made their way to St. Barts, and then remained quiet as they made their way to the morgue. When they got there they heard soft music playing. It wasn’t the catchy pop Sherlock had expected, instead being a piece of classical music. He went to the office and knocked on the door before opening it, seeing Molly lift her head up. She started slightly and knocked over the mug of coffee by her hand. The sound of classical music and shattering ceramics was enough to send Sherlock back into his head, back to a moment he hadn’t wanted to relive.

_”I need you to tell me what you know,” he said in Russian, looking at the woman across from him. Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov’s “Hymn to the Sun” was playing softly in the background on a battered record player. She was kind and motherly, looking very much like his own mother, if he wanted to be honest with himself. “It’s for your own safety.”_

_“My own safety is not assured,” she said, picking up the teapot and pouring them each more tea. “I know your mission is of the utmost importance, but what can I possibly tell you that will help?”_

_“You can tell me names, locations,” he said. “And I can guarantee your safety. I can get you out of Russia.”_

_She set down the teapot and reached over to pat his cheek. “That would be a wonderful dream,” she said. She picked up her teacup and was about to take a sip when she stiffened and the cup fell from her grip, falling to the floor and shattering. His eyes were wide as he saw the red bloodstain blossom on her chest, and he quickly moved to try and see where the shots had come from. She fell to the floor moments later and he dropped next to her, using the table as cover, pulling her onto his lap. “In the…flour…canister…” she said, blood leaking from her mouth as she spoke._

_He stared down at her. “We failed you,” he said quietly as she grasped his hand._

_“You will…wipe out…his web…” she said, and then her grip went limp._

_He lifted his head up and there was another shot in his general direction, hitting the record player and causing the record to stop playing with a scratch. He had just moments. He stood and quickly made a dash for the flour canister, not bothering to dump its contents, just grabbing it and leaving her home, running into the night, getting away from the danger and getting off the grid. It wasn’t safe. He wasn’t safe. Nowhere was safe._

“Sherlock?” he heard John say, and he snapped out of it in a sudden rush, taking a step back. Molly was kneeling on the floor, sopping up the spilt coffee with paper napkins. “What happened?”

“I…I…” he groped, running a hand over his face. Then he waved it when Molly looked up at him curiously. “Nothing.”

“But—” John began.

“ _Nothing_ ,” Sherlock snapped, giving John a stern look. “I need to see Lestrade’s victim and get any pertinent notes from the post mortem.”

“I can do that,” Molly said. 

“I’ll be outside,” Sherlock said, pushing past John and leaving the small office. He went outside the door and then put his back against the wall near the door, tilting his head back and shutting his eyes. He could hear murmured voices inside the office. He knew that they were worried, that they were concerned. He just needed to get through this case, or at least get through this day, at the very least, and then things would be fine. _He_ would be fine.

He had to be.


	4. Chapter 4

“They worry.”

Sherlock groaned as he heard his brother’s voice from somewhere nearby him. He’d gone home after examining the body and studying Molly’s notes on the post-mortem to think and ended up falling asleep from utter exhaustion. He must have moved when he’d finally woken up for his brother to realize he was awake, he realized. And just how long had his brother been in the room? This was his university days all over again, he realized. He pulled the pillow from on top of his face off and glared at his brother. “I’m not an idiot. I know they do.”

“Do they have good reason to?” Mycroft asked, tilting his head.

“Off day. Off bloody week,” Sherlock said, sitting up and rubbing the back of his neck.

“Do _I_ have good reason to worry?” he asked quietly, looking down at his hands.

Sherlock stopped rubbing his neck. “I’m not on drugs,” he said through gritted teeth.

“You’ve told me that before and been lying through your teeth,” Mycroft replied.

“ _I’m not on drugs_!” Sherlock yelled. “I may, _may_ have had a tipple of cough syrup to get to sleep earlier this week but it’s not like I went out and bought some heroin and shot up.” He shot up off the couch and unbuttoned his the left cuff of his shirt, beginning to roll up his sleeve. When it was up high enough he shoved his arm under his brother’s face. “See? Look, Mycroft. Look closely. No track marks. Do you want to check my other arm? Or between my fingers? Or perhaps my toes? Is there any other part of anatomy you think I might have inserted a needle to get my kicks?”

“You’re being overdramatic,” Mycroft said.

“And you’re accusing me of tossing my sobriety out the window again!” Sherlock said, absolutely livid. “I did it before for a case. I did it _once_ , to fool Magnussen. I did it once and I’ve been clean and sober ever since and you think, or rather, you _assume_ that because I did it once that any time I bloody well feel like it I’ll just go waltzing out to the corner and I’ll go meet with the local dealer and get myself some heroin and shoot up.” Sherlock planted his hands on the arm of the chair his brother was sitting in and bent so his face was close to Mycroft’s. “You have no clue the hell I went through, the hell _you_ put me through, _brother mine._ Don’t presume you know anything about me or how I’ll choose to cope with anything.”

“You’re angry,” Mycroft said, seemingly nonplussed, but Sherlock could detect a small tremor of fear in him. He was frightened of him. Damn. He pulled away, his eyes slightly wide, and then went to grab his Belstaff from where he’d tossed it when he’d come in. He needed to get out. He needed air, he needed space. It felt as though the room…he just needed to get _out_. Mycroft began to stand up. “Sherlock.”

“Don’t,” Sherlock said quietly, backing away from his brother. “Just…don’t.” He slipped on his coat and made his way down the stairs and out into the early evening. He could see the top of Anthea’s head in the lowered window of the car parked outside his home, and he knew that chances are she would be monitoring his every movie through CCTV feeds. For the moment, that was fine. It wasn’t as though he was going to do anything stupid or dangerous. He was just…all he was going to do was walk and think. He just needed to move and to put space between himself and Mycroft, as much space as he possibly could.

He just started to wander with no real destination in mind. He was worrying his friend, he had actually frightened the piss out of his brother…he hadn’t wanted to admit it but the allure of the quiet numbness of heroin had been growing stronger, the siren call getting louder. So far he’d been strong enough to resist it but to be honest he wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be able to hold out. 

He needed help; his mind palace was no longer the sanctuary it had been. The walls had been battered down and the defenses had been breached. Someone else would have to help him put the pieces back in place, but there were too many demons at the gate, too many things he had to keep buried deep down, keep hidden from the world. Too many secrets to keep. He would have to do this alone. Alone was better. Alone was safer, at the very least. Alone…if he was alone, it would keep the people he cared about from getting hurt. John, Mary, Catherine, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson…even Mycroft, though he didn’t want to admit it. 

If he was alone, if he was away from them, he couldn’t hurt them anymore. He couldn’t cause them any more pain.

After a few moments he purposefully began to evade the CCTV cameras he knew about. He began using the hand signals to alert his homeless network and began to ease his way among them. He needed to go away for a while. He needed to be alone for a while, to not be a burden on those who cared for him. 

He needed to disappear.

He just hoped no one looked for him while he tried to sort himself out.


	5. Chapter 5

He had stopped counting the days and nights. He just floated along, losing himself among the members of his homeless network. None of them judged him; they assumed it was for a case, and he didn’t disabuse them of the notion. Raphael had gotten the Belstaff, Christopher had gotten the suit and Joel had gotten the shoes. He’d made it a point to avoid Wiggins, not that Wiggins was there very often; he’d managed to get Wiggins out. He’d managed to save Wiggins before winter had set in and he’d died in that flophouse. Wiggins was trying to save others now.

He didn’t want Wiggins trying to save him because Wiggins wouldn’t understand.

None of them would understand.

A few days growth of beard seemed to be enough of a disguise. Most people didn’t seem to recognize him. Their eyes slid right past his face, if they even bothered to notice him at all. That was good. Anonymity was what he craved. Anonymity meant that there was no one depending on him. He’d managed to barter the Belstaff for a beaten up but decent enough violin and he was busking at various Tube stations. It was risky, but he made sure to play decently enough to get money to survive but not at his normal brilliance. He made it a point to play in areas that were blind spots from the constant CCTV surveillance. When he had the violin tucked under his chin and was playing the music he could feel, just for a moment, that all was right with the world. There were no cares, no dark shadows in his mind, just music flowing through his veins. But then the song would end, and reality would crash back, and he would count the change and bills and see if maybe he could afford a dingy hotel room for a night or if he was on the streets. There had been more of those nights lately than he had wanted; he’d been getting weaker and weaker, not able to play as long, and he’d developed a wracking cough that just would not go away.

Tonight he’d managed to get enough to get a decent room for the night, with help from someone in the network, one that had a refrigerator and a microwave in it. He’d bought food, realizing he hadn’t eaten in nearly a day in a half, but once he’d settled on the bed and shut his eyes he found he didn’t have the energy to move. It had been so cold, and the coat he’d managed to get wasn’t nearly as warm as the Belstaff. He crawled under the covers of the bed, which admittedly weren’t very thick; the blanket probably wasn’t much thicker than the cheap cotton sheets, to be honest. He shut his eyes as he curled into a fetal position, trying to get as much body heat as he could. He just wanted to get warm.

He was hovering in and out of consciousness when he heard a pounding on the door. He reached over for the second pillow on the bed and slipped it over his head, but to be honest, he didn’t have the strength to hold it down to block out the pounding. He could have sworn he heard John shouting his name and then heard the door being kicked in before he slipped into unconsciousness, glad for the black nothingness that enveloped him.

It was some time later that he opened his eyes again, and he immediately closed them again. The room was much too bright. After a moment he cautiously opened them again. He felt a weight by his hand and moved his head to see Molly’s head there, as she was dozing by his bedside. Bedside. He was in some sort of hospital bed. There was an IV in his arm, and he was hooked up to machines. It took him a moment to realize that there was something over his mouth. He moved his hand and Molly slowly lifted her head up, giving him a wide smile. “You’re awake,” she said. He gestured to the thing covering his mouth. “It’s an oxygen mask. You had a really bad case of pneumonia. They just took the breathing tube out a few hours ago.” She reached over for his hand. “You almost died, Sherlock.”

He hadn’t realized it had been quite so bad. The worst part was, though, was that he almost wished he had died. He knew that wasn’t a good thing to think, which meant he was no better at getting his life back on track. In fact, he was actually worse off, in that now he honestly cared very little whether he lived or died. It was all so pointless, it seemed. His disappearing act had done nothing at all except but his health at risk and his life in danger. He shut his eyes and only opened them when Molly squeezed his hand. He pulled his hand away and she looked hurt, but he moved it to the oxygen mask, lifting it off his face. “I should have,” he said, his voice raw and rough.

“No,” she said adamantly, shaking her head. “Sherlock…I don’t know what’s going on with you. You pushed us all away and then you disappeared for three weeks and if Wiggins hadn’t realized that one of the homeless network people had your coat and we pressed them for information you would have _died_ , and…” She stopped shaking her head. “None of us want you dead, Sherlock. It would leave such a big hole in our lives.”

“But what point is there to all this?” he said. “I’m not right in the head. I don’t want to live this life, and no one can fix it for me, and I can’t do it on my own.”

“No, you can’t, but someone can help. There has to be someone. Please, just…don’t give up,” she said, and as he looked at her he saw she had tears in her eyes. He shut his eyes at that. He was hurting her. Damn it all, he never wanted to do that. He had vowed never to do that again.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said quietly. “But I don’t…I can’t live this way.”

“Then try and find someone who can help you,” she said. She reached over for his hand again, running her thumb over his knuckles. “Promise me you’ll at least try to find someone who can help. And if you find someone, you’ll let them help. You won’t fight them every inch of the way.”

“I will try,” he said slowly. “But I can’t make guarantees.”

“I’ll take that for now,” she said. He felt himself begin to slip back into the sweet oblivion of nothingness and after a moment felt a gentle press of lips on his forehead. “Get some rest, Sherlock. Get your health back, then work on the rest.”

He nodded just slightly and then sank into the pillows of the hospital bed as he felt Molly pull away. He supposed there was a reason he’d been given a second chance. Whether it was a good one or not remained to be seen, however. But at least there was one person who wanted him to try and be the man he once was, or perhaps something better. That might be sufficient motivation to at least try…he hoped.


	6. Chapter 6

He spent most of his time sleeping, as it was easier than being awake. He was told more of the particulars of just how sick he had been and how close he had been to succumbing to this bout of pneumonia by the doctor, but it had meant very little to him. He supposed he still felt as though it had served him right, in a way, but it all would have been easier if he’d just succumbed. Then he wouldn’t feel as if he was just existing, as if the burdens of the world had settled on his shoulders and were weighing him down more and more each day.

It had been two days when he was paid a visit by both John and Mycroft. John had been there before, staying in the room and talking to him about things of not much importance. He was glad for it, because it gave him something to focus on other than the white walls of the hospital room and the beeping of the machines. Molly had been back a few other times, and his parents had been there as well once or twice, but Mycroft had been noticeably absent. The fact that he was there now, and the fact he had felt the need to have John accompany him, did not bode well.

“Can’t you leave me in peace?” Sherlock asked, glaring at his brother.

“You need help, of the professional type,” Mycroft said, leaning on the handle of his umbrella. “You have two options: spend some time in inpatient treatment, until a doctor decides to release you back into the world, or be released into my care and see a psychiatrist of my choosing twice weekly until she deems you fit to return to Baker Street and resume your normal activities.”

“So I have to go live as your prisoner in your fortress or I can be locked up in an institution?” Sherlock asked, scowling. 

“Sherlock, you have some severe problems,” John said. “Molly said…Molly said you would rather be dead. And honestly, Mycroft can have you put on suicide watch just for that, and put in a hospital regardless. But at least he’s giving you a choice. He thought it might be easier if you had a choice.”

Sherlock crossed his arms as best he was able. “And what if I don’t want to do either?”

“Then maybe I’ll just let you go back out in the cold and you can have your wish,” Mycroft said, making a slight face. “But just realize, as the cold seeps into your bones and the life seeps out of your lungs, it was your doing. You made a promise to Miss Hooper that you would try and get help, that you wouldn’t fight anyone who would attempt to help you. If you choose to disregard either of these choices and you turn your back on your friends and family, you will have hurt them and that will be on you. That will be your legacy that you leave with them.”

The scowl slowly dropped off his face as his brother spoke. He didn’t care about his legacy, but he didn’t want to hurt his friends anymore. He looked over at John. “What would you do?” he asked quietly.

“Professionally or personally?” John asked.

“Personally,” Sherlock asked. “I know professionally you think I should do the inpatient treatment, but…”

“I think you’d go mad doing that,” John said. “I think you should stay with Mycroft. You two don’t have the best of relationships but you can’t stay with Mary and I. We can’t give you what you need. And Molly…Molly wouldn’t be good for you, either. You know that. Your brother can give you the structure you need. I know you think it will be prison, but he’s assured me we’ll get to see you, all of us, if you want us to. When the doctor says you’re up for doing cases again, you can do cases again. And if he’s being an arse and it becomes unbearable then I made him promise we’ll revisit this again and we’ll come up with something else. I just…I want the old you back. I mean, not the _old_ old you, but…”

“I understand,” Sherlock said quietly. He studied his brother. His brother never appeared to care, and yet this…this meant he cared. They all cared. They all probably cared more than he did, to be honest, but he supposed if they all cared enough to try and intercede on his behalf, to intervene before he did anything else just as stupid or worse, perhaps he should make an effort. “Very well. When I’m released I’ll go to your home, Mycroft.”

Mycroft nodded. “I’ll make arrangements, then,” he said, lifting up his umbrella and then turning and leaving the room.

John made his way over to the chair next to his bedside and sat down. “I’m glad you’re doing this, Sherlock,” he said, leaning back in the chair. “We were…you scared the bloody hell out of us when you disappeared.”

“I needed to get away,” Sherlock said, uncrossing his arms and relaxing into the bed more. “I needed to not be Sherlock Holmes for a while.”

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” John asked curiously.

Sherlock shut his eyes. “I feel as though…it’s like…” Then he sighed and shook his head. “I can’t explain it. I don’t know if I’ll be able to to anyone else.”

“You’ll be able to, eventually,” he said. “You just have to find the right person, someone who you feel comfortable with who can get into that head of yours and make sense of things. Hopefully Mycroft will get the right person right off the bat.”

“Hopefully,” Sherlock said as they lapsed into silence. He didn’t have much hope, to be honest; his mind was a very complicated place to start with and the cracks and fissures in his mind palace were large and many. If he couldn’t repair them himself he wasn’t sure anyone could help him do it. But if they could, perhaps it would be worth it to at least try.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chart his doctor gives Sherlock is one I've seen similar ones used in therapy sessions when I was a kid; the specific one I'm referencing was found on Tumblr and I've uploaded it [here](http://s11.postimg.org/v90bc71oz/tumblr_nc4jcecr7l1tv8195o1_1280.jpg).

He’d been released a few days after he made his deal with Mycroft and the day after he settled into Mycroft’s home he had his first session with his psychiatrist. It had been an intake appointment, and he had been informed the next session was when therapy would start. After a few therapy sessions then they would see about medication, if it was going to be needed. He hadn’t seen the point of therapy. Mycroft had insisted there was a point, and said Myra O'Toole was a good therapist who could get good results from even the most obstinate of patients, but he’d been to three sessions so far and barely said a word, and she was still scheduling them and Mycroft was still making sure he attended. Didn’t his brother realize he didn’t want to be there? Talking it all out wouldn’t help. 

“I’m sure you have dreams,” Dr. O'Toole said, looking at him. “If nothing else, you had aspirations as a child.”

“Wanted to be a violinist in a world class orchestra,” he replied, crossing his arms and shrugging. “Found a better use of my time.”

Dr. O'Toole nodded and tapped her pen on her pad of paper. That was a rather annoying habit, he’d found. He didn’t mind so much when John did it, or when Molly did it, but he wanted to snatch the pen from her grasp and chuck it out the window right now. “What about recurring dreams?”

Enough was enough, he decided. “Why should I tell you?” he asked. “We both know I’m only here because my brother feels guilty that I nearly died on the streets of London, because he thinks it’s his fault I’m not settled.” He paused. “Which it is. But that’s not the point. Talking isn’t going to help. Talking to my friends wouldn’t help because they wouldn’t understand, so why would talking to a stranger be any better? It didn’t help when I was forced to go into rehab. What is going to make this time any different?”

“Because this time you’re talking to someone who also has depression and post-traumatic stress disorder,” Dr. O'Toole said simply. She set down her pen and pad of paper on the desk and leaned forward. “I’m former MI-6. I’ve seen some things and been part of things that would make most people’s blood run cold, even trained soldiers. I know what it’s like to carry a heavy burden, to go to sleep at night and wonder if tonight you’ll slip into a dreamless state or if you’ll relive some horrible event. I know what it’s like to be in London one moment and Cairo the next, or to just freeze and then have to explain to people who don’t understand what just happened.”

He looked at her with a newfound appreciation. She didn’t look _that_ much older than him; perhaps mid-forties, maybe a tad younger. There were only bits of grey at her temples and the hints of wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth. She must have been recruited early, done her schooling while working for the government. She had to have been formidable. “Is it…hard?” he asked.

She nodded. “Every day is a challenge,” she said. “But every day you succeed is its own reward.” She leaned forward. “So, now you know that I’m not someone who doesn’t understand where you’re coming from. So. What about recurring dreams?”

He settled back into his chair. “I have a dream sometimes,” he said after a moment. “There’s a gate. It’s a very high gate, higher than me. Chain link. Part of a fence that stretches as far as the eye can see to the right, and to the left there’s a set of stairs. You can go up the stairs, to homes, I gather, but I never want to go to the homes. I always want to go through the gate.”

“Do you go through the gate?” Dr. O'Toole asked.

He nodded. “I’ve gone through loads of times. There’s a winding path. It’s got vegetation all around it, and it leads to a garden. Sometimes I walk the path, sometimes I walk on the shorter chain link fence to the left of the path, sometimes I walk above the path on the huge branches of the trees that grow along the path…but I always walk to the garden.”

“Is it a beautiful garden?” she asked.

“It’s a garden full of beautiful poisonous plants,” he said. “Ever since I visited the one at Alnwick Garden, that’s the garden that’s filled the dream garden,” he said. He watched her pick up the pad and pen to make a note. “I had the dream again last night, but…last night was different. Last night I got to the path, and bits of the branches and vegetation were on fire. Not flames, but the white hot coal and orange embers. I would get too close and my clothes would catch on fire. I would try and smother the flames and I would catch other vegetation on fire.”

“Were you injured by the flames?”

He shook his head. “No. I could see my clothes being damaged, but I didn’t feel the heat. I didn’t feel myself being burned.”

“And you’ve never had this dream before?” she asked, tilting her head slightly.

“No,” he said. He settled his elbows on his knees and steepled his fingers in front of his face. “I don’t dream often, or at least I didn’t, before…everything. And those dreams are different. This dream, in its own way, had been a comfort, and now it seems as though it’s being taken away.”

Dr. O'Toole nodded. “Did you have other dreams like that, that have been corrupted?” Sherlock shook his head. “Perhaps it was something about that particular dream.”

“Perhaps,” he said, slightly dejected and slightly annoyed.

She studied him. “I can only shine a light on things in you, Sherlock. Guide you through the process. A lot of the things that will help you heal from your traumas need to come from you.” He scoffed at that, and in response she reached over to the various file folders she had on her desk and went through them, pulling out a sheet of paper, handing it to him. “This is behavioral therapy, to help change behaviours. You should try these. I can’t guarantee you’ll be able to do all of them, even if we work together for years and years, but the more of these you can do, the better.”

He looked at the list. There were three columns. On the far left were a list of emotions: sad, angry, frustrated, betrayed, worthless, fear, guilt and shame. In the column next to each emotion as what was listed as an Emotion’s Action Urge; sad’s urge was to be alone and stay in bed, and angry’s was to yell, attack or be judgmental. In the column next to that was listed Opposite Action. Sad said to be around others and get active, angry said to be extra kind, not use judgments and gently avoid… Sherlock looked at Dr. O'Toole incredulously. “You seriously think this will work?”

“Sherlock, it’s been proven to work,” she said. “Let’s try this. Work only on the Sad column. When you feel as though you want to be alone and stay in bed, when you want to shut the world out, make yourself be around others. Have your brother invite your friends to his home to spend time with you. Make yourself be active. If you can do that until our next session and it has no effect, then we’ll scrub this and find something else. Agreed?”

He glanced down at the sheet of paper again, and then back at Dr. O'Toole. It wouldn’t harm him, he supposed. With a sigh he nodded. “Agreed,” he said.

“Good,” she said with a nod. “Then I’ll see you again in a week, all right?”

“Fine,” Sherlock said, getting out of his chair. He made his way to the door, holding onto the paper. He’d give it a week, just to prove her wrong. After all, hadn’t he been trying to do that all along? Force himself to be out among people? Once he got the door opened and stepped outside the office he realised no, he hadn’t. He’d shut himself off. He supposed he’d actually have to make an effort this week.


	8. Chapter 8

He hated to admit it, but working on the opposite action was harder than he had anticipated. He still wanted to pull away, stay alone and push everyone away, but he made it a point to reach out even when he didn’t want to, even if it was just a phone call. It was easier to be active, he had found, and he had started to make use of the exercise equipment in Mycroft’s home gym when he had the urge to just stay in bed and sleep the day away.

Prior to his next appointment with Dr. O’Toole he had a surprise visitor. Anthea showed Molly into the sitting room, and she looked around, fidgeting slightly and shifting her hold on the covered plate she had in her hands. “Hi,” she said, giving him a small grin.

He nodded. “Hello, Molly,” he said.

“Your brother said it was all right if I stopped by, and I was baking yesterday, and…well, I thought you might want some of the biscuits and things I made. I mean, if you don’t, you can give them to your brother, or his PA. But, I mean…”

“It’s all right,” he said, trying to give her a reassuring smile. He didn’t want her to be nervous around him. He didn’t want any of his friends to be nervous around him, as though they needed to worry that they would say the wrong thing or do the wrong thing and send him over the edge. “I have a bit of a sweet tooth, and as Mycroft has sworn off all things with even a bit of sugar in them it’s been hell staying here. It will be nice to indulge in a few delicacies, especially if they’re homemade and I don’t need to share.” She relaxed and then moved closer, handing him the plate. He removed the cover and saw at least five different types of biscuits, three different types of bars and what looked like a few very rich squares of brownies. His smile got a little bit more genuine at that rate. It certainly looked as though the goodies on this plate certainly qualified as decadent. “Thank you, Molly.”

“You’re welcome,” she said. She sat down in one of the chairs near him. “How are you doing, Sherlock?”

He looked over at her. “Do you want me to lie or do you want the honest truth?” he asked.

“Well, I thought by now we’re good friends,” she said. “I’d appreciate the truth.”

“It’s hard,” he said, setting the plate on the table in front of them. He reached over and picked up one of the pieces of brownie and took a bite. It was just as good as he’d expected it to be. “Knowing each day I don’t have cases to solve or things to do makes me want to just stay in bed, but I know I need to make myself get up and do things. It’s what my therapist wants me to do. I just…I want to go back to my old life, but I know I’m not in the right place to do that.”

“You’ll be back there eventually,” she said, reaching over and putting a hand on his arm. She squeezed it gently. “I’m glad you’re going through with this, Sherlock. I was worried. You were…slipping away, I suppose.”

Sherlock looked away, back towards the plate. “I’m not sure I would have been able to stop it on my own, if I hadn’t made that mistake,” he said quietly. “I still don’t know if I’ll ever be completely okay. I don’t know if I’m fixable.”

She moved her hand from his arm to his hand, grasping it tightly. “You are fixable, Sherlock. I think if you give it a fair chance, even if things seem outlandish or unusual or strange, then you might be okay again. Perhaps… you might even be able to let go of other hurts, too.”

“That would be nice,” he said with a nod, moving his gaze to their hands. Then he moved his gaze up to her face. “Would you make it a point to come visit more often?”

She nodded. “I’ll come see you as often as you want me to,” she said, squeezing his hand again. “I’ll do anything to help you, Sherlock. That’s what friends do.”

“Thank you,” he said. He gestured to the plate of baked goods. “Would you care to help me eat a few of these? It leaves less for Mycroft to try and steal.”

Molly grinned and nodded. “I would love to.” He let go of her hand and picked up the plate, passing it towards her. She picked up a biscuit and then gave him a smile before taking a bite. He set the plate back down and then settled into his chair. He had made it through the week and while it had been hard, it was moments like this that made it worthwhile, and if he could just concentrate on small victories like this, then maybe he could keep making progress and get back to how he used to be.


	9. Chapter 9

After Molly’s visits, it almost seemed as though his friends began an unofficial schedule of visits to see him. Not so much set times, but every day someone was there. Depending on his mood they would stay anywhere from thirty minutes to a few hours. Mostly it was Molly and John, though occasionally Mary, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson came as well, on days when he got more than one visitor. It helped break up the monotony of his day.

On Mrs. Hudson’s first visit he asked her to bring his violin. He had discussed it with Dr. O’Toole in his prior session, when they had talked about things he did to relax and what he did to cope, and what he felt he could still do and what he felt he would need to change or discard. She had suggested if having his violin was a soothing element in his life then it should be present in his brother’s home. He wasn’t sure if incessant playing would annoy him, but part of him didn’t care. Mycroft insisted he be there so he’d have to suffer through it.

It was two AM nearly three weeks after he had finally started to work with Dr. O’Toole when he was playing in his room. Nothing fast and frantic, but soothing, calm tones that came to him. It wasn’t anything specific, just anything his mind felt like telling his fingers to play. He knew his brother had an important meeting the next day so he was fully expecting to be told to stop playing at any moment, to let him get some blasted sleep, but the interruption never came even though from his bedroom he could hear movement in the kitchen. Finally he stowed his violin in the case and decided to find out just what was going on.

He threw on his dressing gown over his pyjamas and went into the kitchen to find Mycroft leaning inside the open refrigerator. On the surface of the island near the refrigerator there were all the makings of what looked like would be quite a decadent sandwich. “Midnight munchies?” Sherlock asked, crossing his arms.

“I wasn’t able to sleep,” Mycroft said, continuing to rummage through the refrigerator.

“I won’t apologize for playing the violin at 2 AM. It’s a coping mechanism. My therapist recommended it and as you are the one who picked her, you brought it upon yourself.”

“It wasn’t that,” Mycroft said, finally straightening up and putting packages of cheese on the island counter. “I’m…nervous.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “You? Nervous?” he asked, surprised.

“Yes,” his brother replied with a slight scowl. “I do, in fact, have nerves before some of the meetings I have. This one is in the presence of the head of the Queen’s staff. He’s a pompous arse who always looks for a reason to belittle me. He has a few and I doubt he will hesitate to press those points.”

“And I suppose I’m one of them,” Sherlock said quietly. 

Mycroft stilled. “You have been, in the past. I will let you in on a secret, though. The Queen, when she found out you were to be sent to Russia, was furious. It turned out Magnussen had blackmailed someone very dear to her. She almost awarded you a knighthood for killing him. Therefore you are no longer one of those points he can use to belittle me. In the Queen’s eyes, you can, generally, do no wrong.” After a moment he went back to the refrigerator. “But don’t let that go to your head. Her hands are tied in some matters by any number of laws and customs.”

Sherlock moved to one of the stools at the island and sat down. “Why didn’t you tell me that?” he asked.

“Because after the incident at Magnussen’s I didn’t want you to think you could run roughshod over everything you so desired,” Mycroft said. “Just because you have the Queen’s favour doesn’t mean you are scot free to do what you please. You have some leniency, but there are still rules to follow. Still consequences for your actions. You cannot always have luck on your side.” He pulled out a few jars of condiments and set them on the island before shutting the refrigerator door. “Do you want one of these?”

Sherlock eyed the sandwich makings and then nodded. “I suppose.”

Mycroft went to the cabinet and pulled down two plates and brought the back to the island. “You have been through a lot and been luckier than most. But maybe your luck has covered up that you have been far more damaged than you have led us to believe.”

Sherlock watched as he began to make the sandwiches. “I suppose,” he said.

“And I am greatly at fault for that,” Mycroft continued.

“Yes, you are,” Sherlock agreed.

“Which is why I want to do my best to make sure you are as whole and healthy as you can be,” he said as he began to assemble the sandwiches. “I made this mess of you, not just now but for years and years, ever since we were children. I need to fix it.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly at that. He had never expected Mycroft to admit that he was a large cause of the problems he had, not just the immediate ones but the lingering ones. Not only that, but the fact he felt he needed to fix them…that was a remarkable admission. “Are you dying, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked skeptically.

“No, but you were,” he said. “Mummy and Father have already lost one son, even if he’s not dead. They didn’t need to lose another. And…I didn’t need to lose you.”

“But you don’t care,” Sherlock said. “You haven’t cared for years.”

“I _have_ cared,” Mycroft said, lowering the knife he had been using to slice the bread. “Unfortunately I haven’t shown it in a very healthy or productive way. It’s caused more problems then it’s helped solve.”

Sherlock eyed him closely. “Mycroft…are you in therapy?”

“I might be,” he mumbled. “I thought if it would help you, perhaps it would help me as well. I think I fought it more than you did until Andrea gave me a kick in the arse that it does no good if I spend all my time arguing with my therapist.”

Sherlock got a small grin on his face at that. “No, I don’t suppose that helps.”

“Breathe a word about that to anyone and I’ll disown you, by the way,” he said, going back to the sandwiches.

Sherlock nodded. “Duly noted.” He lapsed into silence, aware that this was a shift of sorts. Maybe a monumental shift, maybe not, but it was definitely a shift. He had the feeling from this day forth his relationship with Mycroft was going to be different and, perhaps, better. Only time would tell, he supposed.


	10. Chapter 10

Dr. O’Toole had made the decision to continue the cognitive therapy for a time and add medication to the treatment order before beginning the exposure therapy she wanted to ease him into. Sherlock was glad for that; he wasn’t quite sure how ready he was to relive any of the events of the two years he had been away, or some of the events leading up to him having to fake his death in the first place just yet. They had spent an entire session discussing the various psychotropic medications that he could take, going over the side effects of each in very clinical terms, and had settled on sertraline first, and if that wasn’t effective, then they would try paroxetine. They were now trying to figure out the dosages needed and the best time for him to take them.

He wasn’t fond of having to take medication on a schedule. He wanted to balk at it, to say to hell with it. But she had also prescribed prazosin for the insomnia and he found _that_ helped, and it hadn’t seemed to impede too much on his mental capabilities, so he supposed he would swallow his pride and do what he needed to do. What he had promised to do, actually; he had made promises to Molly and to John, and to the others, and he didn’t want to disappoint them.

He had opened up to Dr. O’Toole a bit about what those friendships meant to him. Mostly his friendship with John, and about how he seemed to be so dependent on him, so needy, and how much it hurt that he had felt like he had been so easily replaced by Mary. He talked about his friendship with Mary as well, about how he liked her but didn’t entirely trust her, about how he worried that one day she might have to choose between the life she had now and the life she’d had then and for some reason, quite possibly not one of her choosing, she would go back to her old life and leave all of them in the wind. He talked about Lestrade, about how he didn’t want to acknowledge he cared and that he admired him, that he needed his stability in his life, that it was easier to belittle him. And he talked about Molly, the mistakes he had made there, the ways he had hurt her, and the fact she still cared, still saw the best in him, and how he never deserved it and never would.

He knew, eventually, she would want him to talk about his family. And one day he might. Even soon, at the rate they were going; he felt comfortable with her, felt as though she was an ally and not an enemy. He felt he was faring better than Mycroft was, from the few times they talked about their sessions with their respective doctors. He had been the lucky one, he supposed. But it wasn’t time yet. He would rather focus on his family by choice than his family by birth, because at least with them he could salvage _some_ sort of decent relationship in all of this.

He was contemplating all of this when his brother’s PA announced he had an after supper visitor. He looked up from his seat in Mycroft’s sitting room and saw John come in, Catherine on his hip. “Thought you could use some company,” John said with a grin.

Sherlock gave him a faint smile and as John got closer he put his arms out for his goddaughter. John gave Catherine to him and Sherlock settled her on his lap. “Company is good,” he said.

“How are things this week?” John asked.

“Still getting used to the medication,” Sherlock said, gazing down at Catherine. She appeared to be taking the room in and after a moment he could tell she wanted to get down on the floor and explore. It should be safe enough; he’d keep an eye on her. “I’m not fond of the side effects but they’re generally mild. If I had a case, I could see if they interfere in that aspect of my life.”

John tilted his head. “Maybe Lestrade has a cold case you could work. You could ask your doctor.”

“I suppose,” Sherlock said as he set Catherine on the floor. In a moment she was off, crawling towards her father. “It’s been weeks and I find I miss it, and yet I don’t.”

John folded his hands and then leaned back. “No one says you have to be a consulting detective forever, Sherlock,” he said.

“What else is there for me to be?” Sherlock asked, only the barest tinge of bitterness in his voice.

“You’re a brilliant chemist. You could be a research scientist. You could always take Anderson’s place at the crime labs if you went back to uni and did some more school. That’d piss him right off.” That thought brought a slightly wider smile to Sherlock’s face, albeit begrudgingly. “You could do something with the violin. There’s a lot you could do if you stop being the world’s only consulting detective.”

“I suppose,” he said quietly. “Part of me thinks I really should.”

“And part of you knows you’d miss it too damn much,” John said, a wry smile on his face as his eyes followed is daughter.

Sherlock nodded. “I just want to be well before I decide what to do, I suppose. Or well enough. I don’t think I’ll ever be _completely_ well.”

John brought a hand up to his chin and scratched it. “No, probably not. I know I’m not. I still go see my therapist on a regular basis, even now.”

That surprised Sherlock. “Really?”

“Oh yeah,” John said with a nod. “Once a month. I saw her more after the incident with the video for a time, after everything with Moriarty, but we’re back to once a month now. It’s good to have someone you can go to to give you that other point of view sometimes.”

Sherlock steepled his fingers together for a moment. “Are you on medication?”

John tilted his head. “I was. I went back on it after the video scare. It triggered something so I went on an anti-anxiety medication for a short time. Those can be quite addicting, though, so we tried to keep my dosage low and my time taking them short. But it helped. There’s no shame being on medication if you need it. I’d rather have you be healthy, happy and whole then find you near death in a hotel that’s only a step up from a flophouse, and if it takes medication to do it then so be it.”

Sherlock nodded and turned his attention to his goddaughter, who had made her way to one of Mycroft’s tables. He was up in an instant, moving over towards her and picking her up of the floor, cradling her close as he carried her back towards them. Truth be told, he’d rather have the same. He was fairly sure he’d gotten past the point where he didn’t care whether he lived or died. He went back to his chair and set her on his lap, gazing down at her. He didn’t want to just be a story to her. He wanted to be there for her, to teach her things, to watch her grow. And if medication would help him do it…perhaps it wasn’t so bad. Perhaps it was worth the side effects. He would wait and see. Then he turned to John. “I suppose there isn’t,” he said. “Why don’t we go to the kitchen and see if there’s any dessert left? Mycroft had a cake and took a sliver of it to torture himself, which means Anthea and I have only a few days to finish it before he decides to sabotage his diet and scarf down the rest. The less there is for us to eat, the better.”

John gave him a grin. “Sounds good,” he said. The two of them stood up and then made their way to the kitchen. Small steps, Sherlock realized. He would keep making small steps until he got to a point where he felt…better. Then it would all be worth it, or so he hoped.


	11. Chapter 11

After a few weeks on the medication, he knew they were going to start the cognitive therapy. He was nervous the night before the session; he found that even with the help of his medication for insomnia he had a hard time sleeping that evening. He was night in the best of moods when he arrived at Dr. O’Toole’s office for his afternoon session. He sat down in the comfortable chair across from her, slouching more than he normally did, and set his arm on the sides of it.

She looked at him, raising an eyebrow at him. “Sherlock, you don’t seem to be in the best of moods,” she remarked.

“Horrid night’s sleep,” he said.

“Do we need to increase your prazosin?” she asked.

He shook his head before bringing his hands in front of his face and steepling his fingers together. “I...know the cognitive therapy is the next step,” he said slowly. “That it’s part of the most effective therapy to best deal with my issues, the PTSD and the depression. But I’m...nervous.”

Dr. O’Toole was quiet for a moment. “The whole point in treatment is to move at a pace that comfortable for you. Is this something that would be _too_ uncomfortable for you, to face those moments in your past that caused you to go down the path you did?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “And I don’t like not knowing. I don’t like not knowing if looking at all the various things I have done in my past will push me over the edge again, send me running back to not caring, or worse. Send me back to old habits.”

“Well, then let’s focus on that today,” she said. “What is the worst thing that could happen, if doing the cognitive therapy sent you on a downward spiral?”

He shut his eyes. “I leave your office, shrug off my security detail, evade all the monitoring detail, find the nearest dealer I can who would have the purest heroin, find a way to get the largest dose I can by whatever means necessary, prepare it, shoot it into my veins, overdose and die. I’ll have let down the people I promised I would work at trying to make things better. I would have disappointed them. I would break their hearts. Some of them...they might not recover.”

“Yes, that is definitely a worst case scenario,” she agreed. “Any other scenarios you could think of?”

He opened his eyes and looked at her. “I...hadn’t really thought of any,” he admitted.

“My worst case scenario was I would go to a bar and get pissed and start a fight when some bloke tried some cheesy pick-up line on me, and I’d knock his teeth down his throat and end up in jail for a bit,” she said, and Sherlock gave a small grin at that. “I’ve heard other ones, like punch a hole in the wall the size of my entire body, go off and shag the first bloke or lass who propositions me and sod the consequences, ram my car into a wall at 200km an hour, go out and pop a pistol in my mouth and blow my brains out. Yours is a _bit_ more detailed, but you know what generally happens?”

“What?” Sherlock asked.

“Drinking and crying, if the person is into that sort of thing, which isn’t _always_ healthy but it can be worked on. Just crying if they aren’t. Or being in a numb sort of state for a while. _Maybe_ some anger at their friends and family, some ‘leave me alone!’ barking at people who don’t get it.” She tilted her head. “I think John would understand. Maybe you should have a nice long talk with him before you start. His therapist is fantastic, one of the best. Her techniques are superb and she and I share a lot of them with each other. I was going to use some of them on you.” She paused. “Not that we’ve compared your case and John Watson’s specifically. Client-patient confidentiality and all. But obliquely, we’ve talked about what might be a good idea.”

Sherlock nodded. He had expected it, to be quite frank. Professionals _did_ speak to each other, and why wouldn’t his doctor and John’s therapist have a professional relationship towards each other. “So you’re thinking we should postpone it a week?”

“I’m thinking that might be best,” Dr. O’Toole said. “Why don’t we call it a day early, and you go see if John can get away from the surgery early? That’s your homework for this session. Have a nice long chat with Dr. Watson about cognitive therapy, and the techniques that Ella applies to his session, and then next week we’ll look at what you think will work and what you think won’t and I’ll tell you what I would consider before we begin our first session. Agreed?”

Sherlock nodded again. “Agreed.” He hauled himself up out of the chair and made his way to the door, pausing before he opened it. “Does my brother agree with how you handle my case?” he asked.

“I don’t exactly answer to your brother the way you think I do,” she said with a small smile. “He tries to get details and I tell him he can judge for himself how you’re doing, but any _actual_ details on sessions need to come from you because I hold my client-patient confidentiality sacred, and no amount of strong-arming from a member of Her Majesty’s government will get me to break my bond with my patient, so he can kiss my arse if he thinks he rates any differently because he’s Mycroft bloody Holmes.”

The chuckle that escaped his lips was unexpected but quite genuine. “I think, Dr. O’Toole, this is why we get along so well,” he said when it tapered off, and he opened up the door and let himself out. He pulled his mobile out of his pocket and pulled up John’s contact with ease, putting it to his ear as it began to ring. “John?” he asked when John picked up. “I thought I might pick your brain about something. Late lunch at the fortress?” A smile crossed his face at John’s response. “Excellent. Meet me there in an hour.” He hung up then and felt...better. At least slightly more confident in what was to come with his next session. Perhaps it would not be as dire as he expected. Perhaps...well, perhaps it _would_ be just what he needed.


	12. Chapter 12

The afternoon after the first cognitive therapy session Sherlock had indeed felt disquieted. He had _wanted_ to distance himself from his friends but John had said if he was wanted he’d meet up with him at Hyde Park with Catherine. S he left Dr. O’Toole’s office and got in a can and made his way to the spot where they usually met, seeing John and his goddaughter waiting for him there. When he got closer he saw John had two hot drinks and he offered one up to him.

“I’m rather surprised your brother agreed to let you out and all,” John said once Sherlock said down on the bench next to him.

“I’m sure my detail is...” Sherlock said, scanning the crowd and then nodding to a man nearby. “Right over there.” He took a sip of his coffee. Two sugars, just how he liked it. “I suppose he has a competent therapist now, who told him when I began this portion of my treatment that I would need some latitude in my freedom of movement. Or perhaps my own doctor strong-armed him into it.”

“Maybe.” John took a sip of his own drink. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Sherlock lowered his up and looked at it a moment. “I was not...am not...a very nice man, John. It’s by the grace of what you’ve written about me, how you’ve portrayed me to others, that’s I’ve come off as a good man, but I’m not, not really.” John opened his mouth to disagree but Sherlock shook his head. “Let me finish.”

“All right.”

“I haven’t needed to start therapy, _this_ therapy to see that. I’ve gotten better, I know that. Maybe I’m a _better_ man, but I don’t think I’m a wholly good one. But perhaps I can be, some day.”

John watched Catherine pull up blades of grass in her fist in front of them. “Do you know what Greg told me once?” he said, looking over at Sherlock. “He said ‘Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and I think one day – if we’re very lucky – he might even be a good one.’ I’m thinking we all might be living to see that day now.”

Sherlock got a thoughtful expression on his face. “I’ve done bad things, John,” he said. “Things I _do_ actually regret, despite what people think.”

“You know, there are things I’ve done that I regret, even if I would do them again,” John said before taking a sip of his drink. “Shooting the cabbie before he shot you, for instance. I did it without thinking, but it’s not good to take a human life, even if it’s to save someone else’s.”

Sherlock nodded. “I feel much the same about Magnussen, though not entirely. I was entirely aware of what doing that would entail. But...afterward. What that did to friendships, what my overdose before boarding the plane did to weaken already strained bonds. And afterward...that wasn’t pleasant.”

John nodded. “How is that going, by the way? The addiction?”

He thought for a moment. “To be quite honest, I don’t think about it too often. You would think I would, with the way everything was going, with the need to numb myself. It had crossed my mind, don’t get me wrong, but it hadn’t been hovering at the edge, like a tiger waiting to pounce. I think the time before the plane had almost seemed a lark, but the plane and afterward...I saw more what I had to lose.”

“Are you going to talk about that?” he asked.

Sherlock nodded. “I trust Dr. O’Toole. I’ve decided to be completely open and honest, to lay everything bare. She’s proven to me she’ll keep my secrets, no matter what I say. Even if my brother pesters her and throws the weight of Her Majesty behind it, she’ll keep what I have to say between us as long as she can, so I’ll tell her everything. I imagine a great weight may be lifted off my shoulder, for me to have someone who knows everything.” He turned to his friend. “I’m sorry that it’s not you, though.”

John gave him a small grin. “Yeah, well, I understand. I do. With my life being the way it is and your brother and our friendship and all of that, if there weren’t secrets we wouldn’t be us.” He had another sip of his coffee. “Don’t worry about it too much. You work on what you need to, get better. I mean, I would say get back to how you used to be but if you can be _better_ than how you used to be I honest to God think I’d rather see that. I’d like my old friend back but there could be room for improvement.”

“You think so?” Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.

“There’s _always_ room for improvement,” John said with a chuckle. “With you, with me, with everyone. That’s why therapists and self-help gurus have bloody jobs.” He turned back and saw his daughter crawling a way, and he set his drink on the bench and stood up. “I think we may have been ignoring the little one a _wee_ bit too long. Think we might need to go take her to a play area and let her go see if there’s other little ones to interact with.”

Sherlock nodded, standing up and picking up John’s coffee as he went after his daughter. John had had a lot to say and there was quite a bit worth listening to. The bit that Lestrade had had to say was especially interesting, and he’d have to ruminate on that for a bit. But this was a good solid step forward, he felt. A nice forward momentum was building, and he’d just roll with it.


	13. Chapter 13

Some sessions went well, others...did not. And today’s session had gone worse than he had expected. He knew his brother had agreed that he could be completely honest with Dr. O’Toole about _all_ matters, not just on the Moriarty and Magnussen issues, but about other issues as well, if needed. Today they had touched on his childhood and he had found himself balking on talking about the incident with his brother’s twin in depth. He just _couldn't_. He wasn’t ready.

He stalked back to Mycroft’s home in a foul mood. He wasn’t at all surprised to see Mycroft in the sitting room waiting for him, and so he sneered at him. “Big brother playing Big Brother?” he asked, flopping into a chair.

Mycroft turned from his position at the mantle and looked at his younger brother. “She wanted to talk about Sherrinford today,” he said quietly.

Sherlock found himself tapping his feet for a moment. He needed to move. Being in the room with the man who was such a spitting image of the one person who Sherlock had thought had _cared_ , the one who _hadn’t_ , was more than he could take. He sprung up out of the seat and began to move about the room. “I couldn’t do it,” he said, moving his hands about. Not wildly; he still had some control, some grip over his emotions. Dr. O’Toole had worked with him on controlling his emotions better and he was trying _so hard_ right now. “Moriarty and Magnussen, I can talk about them in a clinical and detached way. What they caused me to go through...maybe a little less so. But Sher...” He found himself unable to finish his brother’s name, and he paused at the end table, gripping the side. “I can’t.”

“Anthea replaced all the valuables in the room with curios fobbed off on me by unimportant diplomats over the years,” Mycroft said quietly. “Every breakable item in this room is expensive, of course, but utterly worthless to me. Shatter them to your hearts content.”

He stared at his brother. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

Mycroft moved over to the sofa. “My therapist has found that moving my therapy to a private gymnasium and incorporating sparring sessions and workouts with punching bags seemed to do the trick,” he said. “Apparently I have a great deal of aggression I’ve kept trapped deep down for quite a few years. Some of it has been directed at you, of course, but a great deal of it has been at other targets. Working through it has helped. And there’s been the added bonus that I’ve dropped just over a stone.”

Sherlock looked his brother up and down. It _was_ true; Mycroft did look thinner. And he _had_ noticed he seemed to have a much more almost Zen state about him. “What makes you think this will help me?” he asked.

“My own therapist suggested it. At the very least, he thought it couldn’t hurt,” he said. “Besides, it gives me an excuse to get rid of all these God awful curios cluttering up my attic space.” He gestured to the little porcelain trinkets on the table. “Let it out.”

Sherlock wrapped his hand around a small green porcelain vase and picked it up off the table. “He shouldn’t have told Mum and Dad the secrets I told him,” he said, taking the vase and tossing it onto the floor, watching it break upon impact. He had to admit, it felt good seeing it.

“He told a great many secrets he shouldn’t have,” Mycroft said, picking up a blue figurine of a milkmaid and tossing it against the wall. “He nearly cost me _my_ post.”

Sherlock was surprised by that. “I never knew that,” he said.

Mycroft nodded, picking up a delicate looking porcelain rose, then reconsidering it and taking it to a drawer for safe keeping. He picked up a ceramic jug instead, weighing it. “We were attached to the same office. He was smuggling the secrets and selling them to the highest bidder and setting me up to take the fall. You would have lost us both if I hadn’t turned him in.”

“I thought you did it out of spite,” Sherlock said, picking up another bauble but not tossing it. “I thought you did it to hurt me.”

Mycroft set the jug down. “I did it to keep myself out of jail, to keep the government from being severely weakened, and to keep _him_ from hurting anyone else,” Mycroft said, coming over to Sherlock. “But I never did it to hurt you. I only told you he told Mummy and Father the secrets you had told us so you would understand he was not the kind, loving brother he had put on the front of. He did not care who he hurt to get what he wanted.”

“That was why you told me caring is not an advantage,” Sherlock said, fingering the bauble in his hand.

“But I was wrong. I think I have come to find that it is,” he said. “And I have come to find that, perhaps, I have always cared. Perhaps I have cared too much, and shown it in ways that were not the best of ways, but I have seen you with the people you have chosen as you friends and seen how they have helped you with all of this and I’ve come to the realization if you don’t have people who care, then life is not worth living. It’s bleak and it’s lonely and it’s a chore, and there should be more to it than that.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, but he smiled a bit, too. “Therapy helped you a bit more than you had thought it would, I see.”

“I suppose it did,” Mycroft nodded. “To the government I suppose I can still be the Iceman, but in private I don’t think it would hurt to be at least a _bit_ warmer. Thaw a bit more.”

Sherlock gestured to the bauble in his hand. “This was a good start.”

“Well, it hasn’t gone according to plan,” he said. “They’re still in one piece.”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. “Would you object to some of my goldfish coming to help us dispose of these for you?” he asked. “I think Lestrade and Molly and John and Mary might enjoy being able to indulge in a bit of fun breaking expensive curios.”

Mycroft gave him a small smile. “I have five more boxes in the attic. Make your calls and I’ll have Anthea bring them down.” Sherlock nodded and reached for his mobile. He hadn’t expected this, hadn’t expected Mycroft to make the brotherly gesture or the chat or any of it, or to learn the truth, but it had done more to help than any amount of smashing expensive breakable items. But perhaps this was the dawn of a new era of brotherly relations between them, and that was something he could be grateful for.


	14. Chapter 14

He knew that there was something he had to do before he could do before he could move much further in his treatment. He needed to start making amends with the people he had hurt. He was not one to apologize, he never had been, but he knew he needed to start doing so to the people who deserved them. He started the evening after he and the others had helped his brother dispose of the curios by having a truly honest conversation with his brother than had lasted late into the night. It felt as though it had been one of the first honest conversations they had had since they were young, before the fiasco with their brother. They had given each other apologies, and it felt as though they had truly meant them.

Over the next few weeks he had given others apologies as well: John, Mary, Lestrade, Sally, Stamford, Anthea...even Anderson had merited an apology, and it had even been sincere. But for some reason, even though he kept in her company, he found it hard to deliver an apology to one he felt deserved it most of all, to Molly. He didn’t know why, but apologizing to her was harder than it was to anyone else.. He had hurt her in ways he felt that he almost didn’t deserve forgiveness for, to be honest. She was one of the few people who had given him unconditional kindness even as he had spurned it, and as he worked through things he realized how precious that was and how horrible he had been to treat her the way he had.

He had asked her to meet him after one of his sessions at her favorite restaurant near Barts, The Fable. They’d just gotten their orders and he was picking at his beer-battered haddock & chips with the mushy peas and tartare sauce while she was eating her Thai coconut curry and basmati rice with prawns. After a moment she stopped eating and looked at him, frowning slightly. “Sherlock? What is it?”

“I have something I need to tell you,” he said, looking up at her.

Her eyes widened slightly. “You don’t…?” she asked.

He shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I like you, Molly, but I don’t fancy you.”

She let out a sigh of relief. “Oh, I’m glad for that,” she said, going for more of her food. “I like being your friend, Sherlock, but...I don’t fancy you anymore. I mean, we’re good as friends. I’m not sure we’d be good as anything else. Maybe, but...I don’t know.”

He nodded, appreciating her honesty. “Well, what I have to talk to you about is about us, but it’s not that,” he said. “You’ve been a good friend, and I have...not been, not always. I feel bad about that.”

“It’s all right, Sherlock,” she said, reaching over to pat his hand. “You don’t need to apologize.”

“No, I do,” he said. “I have been making my apologies to many people over the last few weeks, but I have found it hard to make the necessary apology to you. I don’t know why, but I feel as though no matter what I say to you it will be insufficient.”

“Sherlock, you really do have nothing to apologize for,” she said, the patting becoming a slight caress of his hand. “After I helped you with your ruse of faking your death, when you were at my home and we talked, I settled our past. Whatever you did or sad before, I forgave you for it. And anything after that...there’s no need to apologize, I promise. You’re human, you make mistakes. We all do.”

He looked down at their hands, then turned his hands so he could grasp hers. “You are too good of a person, Molly. And that is why I feel I need to apologize. Even if you have forgiven me I have not quite forgiven myself for what I have done. I have treated you horribly. And you did not deserve that. So please forgive me, Molly, for all of the things I have done to you. I am sorry for all the myriad ways I have hurt you over the years, and I hope not to hurt you in the future.”

She gave him a small smile. “I know, Sherlock.” She ran a thumb over the side of his hand. “It really isn’t necessary, though. Honest. I don’t need an apology. Though, since you’re so insistent on giving me one, I will accept it.”

He felt himself relax with her acceptance of his apology and he tightened his grip on her hand. There was an almost lightness in his soul that he hadn’t expected to feel that was there now, though he knew that Dr. O’Toole had said that he would feel as though it was though he would feel something like that. He just hadn’t expected to. He had thought that, perhaps, he might feel better, or even as though a weight was taken off his shoulders, but this? This was something different.

He turned to his food again, his appetite returning in full force. The two of them ate their food, chatting easily about other topics for the remainder of her lunch. By the time they were done they went back to Barts and took her to her office. It was the first time he had really been back to the hospital since he had begun his sequestration at his brother’s home. It was strange being there, not quite as comforting as he had hoped it would be.

He drifted up towards his lab and looked around. He hadn’t thought about what he wanted to do when his doctor said it would be all right for him to start taking cases again. It had been, in it’s own way, nice to take a break from all of the drama associated with what his life had been. Looking around the lab he thought about how much he loved what he did in this room, the experiments, the science. He wondered if he should simply concentrate on that for a time, put the cases behind him. But would it be the same? Would he be able to function without the cases? He needed to do some hard thinking on this, he supposed. He had decisions to make, and he had the feeling the time was coming where he was going to need to make them soon.


	15. Chapter 15

He went to his session today, a bit apprehensive. Dr. O’Toole had said that today they would discuss the option of him moving to weekly sessions instead of having two sessions a week, as he was doing quite well. But he wasn’t as sure he was. He knew the cognitive therapy was progressing well; he was finding it easier to cope with the things he had done and the flashbacks when they cropped up, the momentary lapses when he was somewhere else. The startling and stuff was also easier to take. His relationships with his friends had also improved, as had his relationship with Mycroft. He was slowly working on his relationship with his parents; he had the feeling that would take more time, but continued sessions with Dr. O’Toole would help, he knew that.

But he was still trying to figure out what to do with his future as a consulting detective. The fact that they were going to move to once a week sessions was a promising sign that he could go back to doing something in terms of employment soon. Whether it was consulting or something else, he didn’t know, but he could move along with his life again soon and it was something to look forward to.

He settled in the waiting room until he was called into Dr. O’Toole’s office. He moved to his preferred seat and sat down, tapping his foot a bit. Dr. O’Toole looked at him. “I’d have thought you’d be more relaxed, all things considered,” she said.

“I suppose the fact that you think I’m well enough to move to once weekly sessions and possibly go back to consulting has left me pondering if I want to do that,” he said, moving his arms to place his elbows on the arms of the chair and steepled his fingers together in front of his face. “I’m not entirely sure I should go back to that, all things considered.”

Dr. O’Toole nodded. “That is completely understandable. But you do know you don’t need to make a decision now, don’t you?”

Sherlock nodded. “One of the things we’ve talked about is taking my time to do things instead of being in a rush, to slow my mind and my thoughts. But this...this is something I feel I need to make a decision about sooner rather than later.”

Dr. O’Toole tilted her head slightly. “Well, we could do a shortened therapy session and focus on this issue, as it is one that is looming in your mind,” she said. “And if we spend the whole session talking about it, so be it. The point of your treatment is to allow flexibility in it, to do what is best for you.”

“Thank you,” he said.

“You haven’t consulted on a case in months,” she said, placing her hands on her lap. “Do you miss it as much as you did when we first began our sessions?”

He thought for a moment. “No,” he admitted. “I do still miss it, but it’s not as though I’m itching to get back to consulting like I was back then. I know a while back Lestrade was told he could give me a cold case to work on and he didn’t have any, and at first, that aggravated me. He had told me he might have something a few weeks ago and it didn’t seem to excite me as much. And then recently I was at Barts, at my old lab, and...”

Dr. O’Toole was quiet for a moment before she spoke. “And it didn’t feel quite the same?” she prodded.

He nodded. “No, it didn’t,” he said.

“Well, you _are_ a changed man,” she pointed out. “You aren’t the same man you were before you started your sessions with me. You’ve done quite a bit of work to grow and change, so having the same reactions to going back to your old career, your old life, that’s to be expected. But...don’t discount it entirely.” He looked at her in surprise. “If there is one thing I’ve learned about you in all of our sessions, Sherlock, it’s that you enjoy a good puzzle. You like having something to solve. Lately, the puzzle has been you. Learning how you tick, how to fix you. But, eventually, you’ll want to go back to solving crimes. You’ll just want to do it...differently.”

“Will I be able to?” he asked.

She nodded. “The whole point of treatment is to get you back to a normal, productive life. Sometimes that means making drastic changes, of course. That’s what it takes to lead a healthier life. And...perhaps you might make more enemies if you continue to be a consulting detective. You may have other devious people who tr and wreak havoc like Moriarty did. But your support system is stronger now. You’ve improved your relationship with your family and friends and colleagues. And not only that, you’ve worked well on how _you_ deal with things. Your behaviours are less self-destructive. This isn’t to say you don’t still need work, but you have me as an ally for as long as you feel you need me.”

Sherlock nodded slowly. “But is it wise for me to go back to that lifestyle?”

Dr. O’Toole tilted her head. “Perhaps not without some changes. You might want to take better care of yourself when you’re working cases, and you’ll want to treat clients and colleagues better. But I don’t think it would be _bad_ for you. But the decision is up to you. The good thing is, though, is that you have time to make the decision. You still have your whole life ahead of you, Sherlock. You have time stretching out in front of you and a bit of leniency to make decisions on things like whether you want to go back to Baker Street or back to consulting. But we’ll take things one step at a time, and the first step is to move to once a week sessions. Alright?”

Sherlock nodded again. “Alright,” he said, letting her words sink in. It was true, he did have time. There was no need to rush. He could weigh out his options, factor in all the factors, and make the best decision for him, and he knew he would have the full support of all his friends and family. They would want him to do what was best for him, whatever that turned out to be.

Dr. O’Toole gave him a warm smile. “Excellent. Now, do you think you have that settled?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said.

“Then why don’t we move into your therapy session, and then we’ll go over your medication, see if we need to make any adjustments, and call it a day? And then we’ll discuss which day we prefer for our once a week sessions?”

“That sounds fair to me,” Sherlock said, getting comfortable in his chair. He knew there was still a long road ahead of him, still work to do, but at least he wasn’t walking this road alone, and for that he was grateful.


End file.
